Jealous
by ADisplayOfPatience
Summary: Why is Jackson the way he is: bitter, lonely, desperate for love and acceptance? Why did he never tell anyone about Isaac's abuse? Why is he so distant towards his parents who seem to love him? Rated M for sexual abuse of a minor as well as hints of physical abuse.


**Author's Note: **This story will contain implications of inappropriate, dub-con between a minor and an adult. There is nothing too graphic. The focus is not the abuse, but the effects of it and the negative thoughts that kind of trauma leaves behind. If you are suffering in anyway, please don't belittle your feelings. Please don't compare your suffering to anyone else's. There is no competition in suffering. All abuse is serious and shouldn't be taken lightly.

…

**Jealous**

…

Jackson stared at his bedroom door, waiting for it to open. It wasn't a question of 'if' it would open, but 'when'. They had fought again tonight. It was only a matter of time before the slight creaking sound would invade the room followed by the cold trickle of light from the hallway. He wondered which one of them he was waiting for tonight? Who was coming to say goodnight to their little boy this time?

Jackson grimaced. In all the time that he was a kid, he had never been tucked in, but maybe once or twice by a babysitter. Suddenly, now at fifteen, he was getting more and more late night visits. The best part was that he was pretty sure neither his mom nor dad knew that the other one was doing the same thing. It wouldn't still be going on if they did. Secrecy: that was the key to these visits. Both of them whispered it in his ear every time they left. Jackson wasn't sure why they cared so much about keeping these 'goodnight kisses' from each other. It's not like they could hate each other anymore than they do. In fact, maybe telling was the answer to all their problems. They'd finally have something to do together. Jackson snorted bitterly to himself at that. But he still didn't mention it to either of them. Or to anyone else really. Fourteen was too old to be getting kisses goodnight.

Jackson's thoughts trailed away as he heard the click of the door knob turning and waited with slightly baited breath: whose turn was it tonight?

He let out a sigh when he saw his mother's teased, blonde hair dip into the doorway. He couldn't tell if he was relieved or frustrated.

"Jackson?"

His mother's voice was a little gravelly due to her supposedly abandoned smoking habits. Jackson closed his eyes. He heard the question in her voice but didn't respond. He knew she'd wake him up anyway.

"Jackson honey?" His mother tried again, easing herself onto her son's bed until she was lying next to him.

"Jackson? I just wanna say goodnight...are you awake?"

Finally Jackson answered. He didn't really want to let her know he was awake, but he also knew that his state of consciousness wasnt going to stop her. He'd feigned sleep before. He thought maybe that would make them lose interest. He was wrong.

"Yes. I'm up."

He didnt do much to keep the resentment out of his voice.

"Oh don't be short with me now, Jackson," She kept her voice soft and whining, draping an arm over his chest. Her hand rested beneath his sternum, moving in slow circles, "I need you."

Jackson tensed under the attention. On one hand, he felt awkward. Here was his forty something year old mother, snuggling up to him in nothing but a satin bathrobe, whispering in his ear in a sickly sweet voice she never used during the day. That was weird wasn't it? But then again, she wasn't his real mother...so it didn't count, right? That's what he wanted to believe: this was normal. This was just how mothers were; how parents showed affection to their kids. But then why had this only started happening a year ago. No, it wasn't right. It didnt feel right. But it did feel good, at least on some level.

Deep down, Jackson had a primal need to be wanted. It was intense to the point where he didn't really care who wanted him or why. He just needed to be needed. Maybe his real parents hadn't wanted him, but these ones did. They "needed" him, like his mother had said. And as much as their 'needs' made him squirm, they filled a hole that otherwise threatened to consume him- at least for a while anyway.

So even though Jackson's body tensed at his mother's touches, a small part of his soul relaxed at her words, its pent up fear of being unnecessary overcome for the time being. He only gagged a little when she changed positions, her face hovering over his own, the smell of tobacco smoke creeping into his nose, making his eyes water.

"He's so awful, your father," She whispered into his mouth, her breath hot on Jackson's lips, "he doesn't give a damn about me at all. Or anyone but himself. Awful."

Jackson didn't respond. His father would undoubtedly climb on him tomorrow night and mumble the same words about his mother. He'd learned early on that they weren't interested in what he had to say. At least they never asked him to take sides. Jackson wasn't sure he cared enough to fight for either of them.

"Promise you won't be like him, Jackson, _promise_ you won't stop caring about me." She moved a hand up to pet his hair and closed her eyes.

"I promise." Jackson said the words and felt nothing when his mother's tears dropped from her face to his. He felt nothing as she put her lips over his and tangled her fingers in his hair. It wasn't until she slipped his hand under her nightgown and her own under the waistband of his boxers that he felt the pit of his stomach drop and turn cold, causing him to shiver from pleasure or disgust he still didnt know.

...

It wasn't long until both mother and son were sweaty and satiated. When it was over, she always kissed his forehead before leaving, something his father never did when he took his turn. He didn't know whether this little action made him feel better or worse. He wanted to think it didn't make him feel anything at all, but he knew that wasn't true. He couldn't stay numb once they left. That was the problem really- he was always feeling something when they were gone. He hated it.

So he was lying on his back trying to feel empty when he heard the all too familiar screams from across the street. On a different night, Jackson would have gone to the window to watch the shadowy figures advance on each other behind closed blinds, but not tonight. He didn't like to move much after their visits. Too much movement caused certain parts of himself to rub against other parts and Jackson preferred to forget about those parts on nights like this.

Another loud wailing sound echoed down the street from his neighbor's house. He couldn't quite make out what the muffled screaming and crying voices were saying, but he could make a good guess. He had seen the kid who lived there, Isaac, in school today; sat across from him in science class. He watched as the teacher handed back their latest lab reports. Jackson got an A. Isaac got a C+. Jackson watched as the kid's eyes drooped closed in defeat. He watched his body sink in on itself and he could feel the dread roll off him in waves. He himself, knew that reaction, understood it better than he'd care to admit. He'd experienced it every time his parents started arguing. The spark of inevitable doom.

Of course Jackson couldn't stay sympathetic for too long. Sure he knew the kid had it rough, but at least he had something to show for it. Whenever Isaac got the shit beat out of him, he'd show up the next day with bruises, sometimes a broken wrist or sprained arm. Not all the kids cared: some laughed at him, but mostly everyone would flock around him, badgering him with questions, with attention. And that little shit just shrugged them off and went to sulk by himself in the back of class. It made Jackson want to punch him himself. Isaac didn't understand the luxury of sympathy that those bruises granted him. He didnt realize that the only reason he didn't get F's on his shitty lab reports was because his teachers couldn't help but feel sorry for him when he was all banged up. Isaac Lahey was ungrateful.

Jackson would do anything to have that kind of freedom. He wanted someone to look at him and see how much he was feeling. How much he was hurting. He couldn't count the number of times he prayed to some unknown god that his parents would hit him. That they would come in his room in the middle of their argument, not the end. Jackson wanted them to hurt him how Isaac's dad hurt his kid. Punches, not kisses. Insults and screams, not whispered pleading. He desperately wanted his father to grab his hair and shove his face into the ground, not his pillow, for a change. He hated him for it. He hated Isaac. He hated Isaac's father. He hated everyone who ever spared that kid a sympathetic look only to pass him right over just because he didn't wear his pain for the world to see. He couldn't. How could he possibly complain to anyone that his parents just love him so much it hurts? How could he prove that he's in pain when their soft caresses don't leave so much as a scratch? When their words are nothing but sad and needing? Everyone would laugh. No one would look at him like they did Isaac. No one would ask him how he was. No one would care. His teachers would still expect A+ work and his parents an A+ performance.

Jackson sighed and shoved his blankets onto the floor: The strong smell of sex and his mother's expensive perfume was making him nauseous. The Lahey's continued their yelling, only the occasional smash of something breaking interrupting their slurs at each other. He listened to them emoting at each other. He could picture their faces, contorted with rage and anguish as they put their whole bodies into their hollering, their hate and anger showing in everything they did. And Jackson stayed on his back, expressionless, and stared up at his blank ceiling, feeling everything they felt, but not being able to let it out. His face stayed the same. His larynx didn't rise, his eyes didn't water, and his face didn't flush red. He just stayed still, face uninterested and rigid, repressing the boiling hate inside of him. He stayed this way, eyes open and starless until the yelling died with the slam of a door and all that was left to listen to were the cries of a boy who didn't know what he'd done to deserve this kind of cruel love.

But he didn't know if he was hearing the boy outside, or just the one in his head.

…

**NOTE: **Thanks for reading. If you liked the story, let me know! I've got a ton of little stories like this for pretty much every character on the show, so if thats something you think you'd wanna read, just leave a comment and let me know.


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